


'cause i'm never late to the party if i'm late to the party with you

by elsaclack



Series: meandering thoughts of a hopeless romantic [5]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pining, basically i'm hopping all over the place on the timeline, character torture, i'll update tags if necessary!!, i'm playing it all by ear at this point, kiss prompts, some may end up being slightly au, some of these are canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-08-11 04:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: A collection of one-shot kiss prompts originally posted to Tumblr





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **CHAPTER SUMMARY:** 16\. when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead
> 
> this is like,,,some time in s2 but i have no idea when. are they both single?? are they with teddy/sophia?? who knows!! who cares!! all u need to know is that they’re not together yet in his fic!! got some pining up in here!! enjoy!!

“Perm-mmph.”

“Sh.”

“Mm- _mmm_  -”

“Shut  _up_.”

What’s meant to be an indignant huff escapes her chest as a shivering, uneven exhale. Jake quickly tosses another blanket over her - and the couch cushion on which she sits dips down slightly beneath the weight of his knee, his hands steady-but-frantic as he haphazardly tucks the edges of the blanket around her.

Amy screws her eyes shut as another involuntary shiver wracks her body - and above her, Jake makes a quiet, strangled noise as he pushes off the couch.

“Finally understand why you have so many damn blankets,” he mutters, now behind her, likely emptying out the basket overflowing with fluffy throw-blankets. Her lips are still caught in the folds of the first cable-knit blanket with which he’d mummified her, and her arms are still essentially pinned to her sides, and when her eyelids flutter open and her jaw comes unclenched he’s standing over her again, knee-deep in blankets spilling across her floor. “It’s okay,” he tells her, all but wrestling with the king-sized blanket her brother gifted her on her last birthday. “It’s okay.”

His last name trips and stutters through her lips, muffled into the blanket to the point of being utterly unintelligible once again, and it’s like it feeds the panicked gleam in his eyes. Slowly, fingers sluggish and stinging with newly-restored feeling, she wriggles her left arm up to pull the blankets covering her mouth down to just below her chin. “Peralta,” she finally gasps.

It doesn’t escape her notice that her voice is alarmingly hoarse; it doesn’t escape her notice that he visibly tenses at the sound of it, his own hands shaking as they ball to fists in the material of the blanket he’s still trying to unfold.

“I-it’s fine,” she murmurs, resisting the urge to hunker down in her blanket cocoon as another chill races down her spine. “I’m-m f- _fine_.”

Another chill wracks through her, this one more powerful than the last - and she feels a rush of heat and air at her side. One cracked eyelid confirms that Jake has dropped to his knees at her side, seemingly abandoning the blanket. His left hand flutters uselessly over the lump where her knees are bent beneath the blankets he’s already thrown around her, and she feels his other hand ghosting over her shoulders, fingertips barely brushing against her snarled hair. “You’re still freezing.” he tells her.

“N-nev-ver n- _not_ freez-zing,”

His quiet bark of laughter is humorless, and his hand finally curls over her knee; and perhaps if there weren’t eight blankets between them, she’d be able to appreciate the heat of his skin against hers. It’s quiet for a long moment, aside from her labored and uneven breathing.

Jake springs back up to his feet quickly, leaning over her to brace himself on the back of his couch as he quickly kicks his shoes off. There’s a new look on his face - she’d almost call it grim determination, or something along those lines - but he’s already climbing over her legs before she can ask, his hands gentle on her side as he wedges himself between her and the back of the couch, careful to keep from pushing her off the edge. “C’mere,” he mumbles, pushing and pulling until she’s turned on her side, burrowing into his chest.

The relief is instantaneous, though it does little to soothe the alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind. He’s pulling her in closer, one hand steadying the back of her head while the other rubs a broad, flat path up and down the expanse of her back. Somehow she manages to twist in such a way that the blankets between their bodies bunch up and slide down her back. He catches them before they can go and slip off the edge of the couch, yanking them up and over both of their bodies before worming his arm back under, fingers seeking her back. “Y-you don’t ha-have to do this-ss,” she whispers.

He huffs out another humorless laugh - this one decidedly quieter than the last - and continues rubbing warmth into her back. “You’re free to tell me to stop at any point,” he mutters, hand briefly leaving the back of her head. When all she does is nestle stubbornly closer, it returns, his fingers gently combing through the tangles at the nape of her neck. “God, Ames, you’re  _freezing_.” She hums, eyes closed, reveling in the warmth spreading through her toes. “How’d you even end up down there, anyways?”

“Perp pushed me,” she mutters, balling her fingers into fists, snagging the material of his flannel where it rests over his belly. “Slope was too steep, too icy, and - and ankle. Couldn’t climb back up alone.”

It’s his turn to hum, his legs shifting restlessly, shin bumping against her bandaged foot sending a dull ache up her leg. Her brow his furrowed so hard she can feel the beginnings of a tension headache curling along her temples.

“We were worried,” he says, and it’s like the words are clogged, like there’s some filter of emotion she can’t decipher straining his voice. She feels his fingertips gently scrape against her scalp, twisting into her hair and tugging gently. “I’m - I’m sorry you were stuck down there for so long.”

Behind her eyelids she still sees it - the muddy slope, the hellacious white horizon, the fat curtain of snow whorling through the air - and for a second, she’s there again, so tiny and half-buried and forgotten. The echo of a frigid breeze winds its way beneath her skin, and Jake’s grip around her tightens, as if to stave off the trembling. “Was only half an hour,” she murmurs, tilting her head up until her nose presses against the column of his throat.

He hisses involuntarily, flinching at the contrast between her frigidity and his heat, but he doesn’t pull away; slowly, she feels the muscles in his chest loosen beneath her cheek. “Yeah, but it’s practically in the negatives out there,” he says, “and you get cold so easily - it could’ve been really bad.”

With the warmth’s slow advance comes a powerful wave of exhaustion, leaking the tension from her muscles like water from a faucet. “It wasn’t, though,” she mumbles. “You found me.”

He’s quiet now - aside from the sound of his heart thudding rhythmically against his chest - and if she could tilt her head back to look him in the eye, she might see something thoughtful in the recesses of his gaze. Something distant, something hopeful - something longing. The alarm bells are still ringing in her head, a screaming reminder of his declaration of feelings for her and her own muddled confusion about him, about  _what he is_  to her, but she gets the sense that none of that really matters to him right now.

“Thank you,” she sighs after an immeasurable silence, and the words themselves seem to melt against his chest.

He grunts softly, fingers now gently pulling her hair away from her face at her temple - the stroking movement lulling her closer to the edge of unconsciousness. “Go to sleep,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear through a layer of her hair. “I’ll let myself out in a little while.”

She hums, words of protest only just beginning to form in her throat, but he’s rolling her head back to free up a little more breathing space and gently pressing his lips to her puckered brow and he’s warm and steady and comfortable and dark, dark, dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11\. when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *charles boyle voice* _saucy_

It doesn’t occur to Jake to be nervous again until much, much later - well after the four kamikaze shots (and the two glasses of wine and the single mimosa -  _why_ ) have absorbed into his system. He’s been doing just fine leading up to now - better than fine, actually, he’s been charming as  _hell_ , thank you very much - laughing at all her jokes and making her laugh at all his jokes and holding doors open for her and paying for the tab  _and_ the cab and just generally  _owning_ this whole date. It’s almost eerie, how natural it feels to be on a date with Amy Santiago. 

His colleague. His partner. His friend. His  _best_ friend.

He’s on a date with Amy Santiago - scratch that, he’s unlocking his front door and inviting Amy Santiago inside for coffee and  _talking_ \- and she’s standing to his right leaning up against the wall with that punch-drunk grin on her face, left over from his last impression, and holy  _shit_.

He fumbles with the keys.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice - she’s openly studying the side of his face and he can feel her gaze burning on his skin, electricity suddenly zinging through his limbs. She’s smiling at him, she’s leaning in closer to him than she usually does, and all he can think about is the heat of her skin through her thin blouse and the scent of her soap burning in his nose and the soft, languid press of her lips against his. God, she knows how to kiss. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of tongue. He’s only kissed her once and it absolutely  _wrecked_ him and just what the hell was he thinking, asking her out to dinner without taking at least a week to recover from that kiss?

“You good?” her voice is soft in his ears, close enough that her breath washes over his neck, and when he nods his throat constricts automatically in a thick swallow.

“Yeah,” he croaks - and his key snags in the lock, catching a wrong angle that stops it just half a centimeter in. “Uh - the key’s - um -”

She giggles - Amy Santiago  _giggles_ , who’d have thought - and suddenly her hands are closing over his upper arm, her forehead pressing heavily against his shoulder. “You smell good,” she mumbles into his sleeve.

Well,  _damn_ , now he’s  _really_ a goner.

Breath caught in his throat, he finally manages to wrestle the key into submission, unlocking his front door and throwing it open without so much as twitching his right arm lest he accidentally chase her away. “Got it,” he mutters.

Her head lifts from his shoulder and turns, expression one of tipsy curiosity; she seems to register the fact that his apartment is now openly accessible several moments after the fact, like the realization is delayed. “Oh! It’s so warm in here!” she pushes away from him save for one hand on his arm - her grip tightens and pulls at his sleeve as she traipses inside.

He follows her willingly.

“I love this apartment,” she murmurs dreamily once inside, and he resists the urge to remind her that the last time she was here she spent five full minutes lecturing him about how disgusting his apartment is. “I love - everything. Every - all the - the bricks and the windows.”

He snorts as her hand falls from his arm, watching her drift further into his apartment, turning on her heel and taking the whole place in. She exhales a dreamy sigh - and the sound makes his belly clench with nerves automatically. “I promised you coffee,” he says, backing toward the kitchen. She hums without bothering to turn her attention away from his framed Die Hard poster.

“Why d’you like Die Hard so much?” she asks as he measures out the coffee grounds. “Like, what is it about that movie, specifically?”

“It’s not just that movie, it’s the whole franchise,” Jake calls. The coffee pot whirs to life. “And I dunno, what’s not to like?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Fine, I like all the guns.” Movement in the kitchen doorway catches his eye; when he glances up, he finds her leaning against the doorframe, a brow arched, unimpressed. “There are  _so many_  guns.”

“That’s not actually it, though, is it?”

A smile slowly curls the corners of his mouth. “That’s definitely  _part_ of it.”

“What’s the real reason, though?”

He considers her a moment, listening to the coffee pot groan and complain through the motions of straining the water. “I don’t know,” he says, softer than before. “I guess - it reminds me of my dad?”

Her expression softens infinitesimally.

“It was his favorite movie back before he left,” he murmurs over the sounds of the coffee dripping into the pot. “Used to watch it with me every weekend. It was one of the only things he didn’t take when he left, but I think that’s ‘cause he forgot it. He, uh, left in a rush. I don’t know, maybe that isn’t it - I mean, my dad’s, uh, trash. But I still love Die Hard.”

She’s moving toward him now - slowly - and he turns his head away, watching the dark roast rippling with each drip into the pot, letting it steady his spinning head.

“I think it’s ‘cause - ‘cause he - uh, McClane - he never gives up on Holly. Like, even when she’s telling him that it’s over and she’s moving on, he just - he keeps fighting for her.”

She’s just centimeters away now, fingers gliding over his where he’s braced against the edge of the counter, and when he dares to peek at her from the corner of his eye he finds her eyes wide and shining and overflowing with affection. “Jake,” she whispers.

“Like I wish my dad had fought for my mom,” he hears himself murmur. “Like - like I -”

She’s pulling him down to her level before he can finish the thought and the words, whatever they are, go flitting away into the atmosphere at the electric brush of her lips on his. He sinks into her, hands automatically finding purchase on her hips as her fingers glide into his hair, and a quiet groan buzzes against his lips in conjunction with his tongue brushing against hers. He doesn’t remember opening up for her or her opening up for him - they just are, they always have been, perfectly open and accessible and  _together_. He’s melting, boneless, and the coffee pot has gone quiet.

 _Let’s not have sex right away_  echoes through his mind in the silence and he grips her hips a bit harder, thumbs brushing up in a nervous arch over the crests of her hip bones. Slowly, he eases back, cataloguing the way she strains after him with a distinct thrill.

He hums, the sound throatier than he was expecting, and her hands slide down the curve of his skull to find purchase on the back of his neck, catching and pulling on the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Coffee - we were gonna talk -”

“Tired of talking,” she whispers back, almost strangled.

“But the rule -”

Her eyes meet his - and her gaze is startlingly,  _paralyzingly_ clear. “I don’t care.”

“Are you  _sure_ you -”

She smothers the last half of his question with another deep, penetrating kiss, and in an instant his resolve has washed completely away.

They break a rule.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8\. being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let’s say this is set the night amy shows up at his door to say screw light and breezy!!!! this is, how u say, grasping at straws,,,,

Jake makes her feel  _sacred_.

Treasured. Coveted. Wanted.  _Loved_.

That he feels his emotions intensely is no secret - such is life for a man whose heart is firmly sewn to his sleeve. Calling him an open book seems too negligible an understatement; he’s a flashing neon sign, a screaming billboard. As intense and ever-growing as an impending hurricane - and like a hurricane, his emotions leave nothing in his path untouched.

But it isn’t until she lets him in - until he lets her in,  _truly_ in, all the way down to his smoldering core - that she realizes just how carefully he’s been holding back on her.

Jake Peralta loves with every particle of his being.

It’s in the way he touches her - soft and warm and unyielding and insistent, hands restless and roaming, fingers grasping and pulling. It’s in the way he breathes against her - little impatient huffs, as if frustrated by the fact that he’s yet to figure out a way to survive without the need for oxygen. It’s in the way he kisses her - a full-bodied movement, as if to pour some portion of his very soul into her.

It’s in the look on his face when she finally pulls away to gasp for air - in his still-parted lips, in his unsteady breaths in, in the way his eyelids seem to struggle and flutter before he finally forces his eyes open again. It’s in the intensity of his gaze - in the expanding supernovas bursting in his irises and the sheer intensity with which he studies her, like if he doesn’t commit every last ounce of his mental facilities to memorizing her face he’ll never forgive himself.

It’s in the slow, lazy smile that curls every slope and line of his face, igniting like a rising sun, blazing across the horizon so thoroughly it eradicates every shadow of doubt laid out before it.

He leans in and kisses her again - thorough, but not as frantic as before - and he pulls away too soon, leaving her falling forward, hands braced against his chest, seeking more. His laughter is quiet and melodic and it washes over her face in a warm wave of breath; this time it’s  _her_ eyelids that flutter open a beat too late.

“You’re really good at that,” she breathes and he shakes his head, eyes still roving over her face, awash with the rosy glow of affection she’s still getting used to seeing unadulterated.

“Only ‘cause of you,” he murmurs, hand briefly visible from the corner of her eye before she feels his fingers sink into her hair. “Only  _for_ you.”

It’s in his disarming vulnerability, in his stripped away bravado, in his genuine earnestness and his thumb stroking softly at the nape of her neck.

They’ve only had each other for a matter of hours now ( _screw_ being colleagues and  _screw_ light and breezy, he is hers and she is his,  _damn_ the consequences) and it should be  _terrifying_ , how easily he makes her heart skitter and jump inside her chest - but it isn’t.

Jake Peralta makes her feel a lot of things - there simply isn’t any room for scared.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15\. a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during The Cruise ;-)

Amy’s frantic by the time they make it back to their cabin, her fingers rough and just a touch unsteady where she struggles with the buttons of his shirt. He can’t help but to laugh - not with her making those frustrated sounds, not with the sheer giddiness coursing through his veins.

His laughter, apparently, displeases her. “I’ll rip ‘em off,” she warns, eyes shining through her lashes.

He covers her hands with his and gently pries them away, pulling them each out until she’s flattened her palms against either side of his chest. “I had a plan, y’know.”

Her earlier frantic haste has dissipated now - all that remains is a curious look, filtered through layers and layers of affection. “A plan?” she repeats, quirking a brow. “For what?”

“For - for saying it. First. I had a plan to, uh, say it first.”

Her eyes widen a degree as understanding washes over her. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. Too bad you just ruined it.”

They’re both grinning stupidly at each other and he knows that, were Rosa here, she’d probably smack them both upside the head - mostly for letting Doug Judy get away  _again_ but also because they’re gross and touchy-feely and  _in love_. “Well, now I have to know what exactly I ruined.”

“Let’s see…” he pretends to muse, hands drifting down her arms to her waist. “I was gonna ask you to go out to dinner with me, and tell you to dress nice…” he strokes his thumbs up over her sides, the hard ridge of her ribs just barely discernible beneath the soft material of her dress. “I was gonna show up at your door and not tell you where we were going, which would’ve driven you completely insane…” She stifles a giggle and curls her fingers into loose fists over his shirt. “I would’ve let you try to guess for the whole ride there, because you’re so freakin’ cute when you’re trying to figure out what I’m up to…” Slowly, so as not to trod on her feet, he moves forward - and Amy takes his lead at once, shuffling backwards blindly. “And when we finally pulled up to the place, you would’ve been really confused, ‘cause it’s definitely not a restaurant…”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, there’s no such thing as a pantsuit  _club_ , I buy most of mine from department stores -”

“That’s exactly what an elite member of a secret pantsuit club would  _want_ me to think, first of all, and secondly - that’s not where I would’ve taken you. It’s an old building on the west side of Brooklyn. Used to be apartments, now it’s apparently being renovated into offices…”

She furrows her brow just as the edge of the bed hits the back of her knees, bringing them both to a stop. “Old apartment building on the west side…” she murmurs.

“We would’ve gone up to the roof,” he says softly, “and I would’ve opened the door for you, and there would’ve been blankets and pillows and candles and lights - the little kind, y’know? Like, Christmas lights - anyways, I wanted to have, like, food and wine and champagne and stuff, like a grown-up picnic -”

“- on the roof,” she finishes in a whisper, and he grins, suddenly feeling very small beneath the unadulterated adoration shining in her gaze. “The -  _our_ roof. Right?”

It’s been well over two years since that chilly February evening but he still feels the breeze that caressed his face, still tastes the salty peanuts, still feels the ghost of an ache in his cheeks for how hard and long he’d laughed and smiled with her that night. “Right.  _Our_ roof. I had it all planned out - I just kept procrastinating. ‘Cause I was…I don’t know. Scared, I guess.”

“Scared of what?”

He exhales, and she’s reaching up to lace her fingers together behind his neck, and she’s warm and sweet and soft and she fits so perfectly against him, and there is no fear or nervousness or reservation - it’s just her, now.

“I don’t remember.”

She uses her new anchor around his neck to pull him down just slightly, just far enough for their lips to brush, and every last one of his senses are flooded with her. It’s soft and it’s slow and it’s chaste and warm and he really, really,  _really_ loves this woman.

It’s been too long since he told her.

He pulls back just far enough to look her in the eye, momentarily delighting at the fact that her grip around his neck tightens, as if to hold him to her a moment longer. “Amy,” he breathes as her eyes flutter open, “I love you.”

The brilliant flash of her grin is the last thing he sees before she yanks him back to her, lips now crushing against his - and he sends them both falling backwards into the bed.

They don’t get up again until dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 19\. kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOT 2 (TWO!!!!!) REQUESTS FOR THIS ONE AND U KNOW I CAN’T CONTROL MYSELF WHEN IT COMES TO A SOFT COUPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!

From where Jake stands in her kitchen, Amy very much looks to be at the tail end of her proverbial rope. She’s sitting at the epicenter of a veritable explosion of papers - maps and photographs and detailed reports - strewn about in such a pattern that it almost resembles a crater. He’s close enough to hear her muttering to herself, but not close enough to decipher whatever language she’s speaking.

He’s worried - but he’s playing it cool. At least, he’s pretty sure he’s playing it cool. It’s hard to tell what she’s consciously aware of and what’s flitting by, skirting just outside the reach of her attention - most of which is focused on her newest case, the evidence of which she’s currently studying. He’s worried because it’s been five days since the case was assigned to her and she’s been working it non-stop; he’s worried because she’s slipping into that manic mode he oh-so-rarely sees anymore; he’s worried because the last time she got like this she worked herself into oblivion, managing to contract such a severe case of the flu she had to be hospitalized.

They hadn’t been  _together_ back then. Not yet, at least.

That hadn’t stopped him from dropping by Kowalski’s for fresh pierogis and bringing them to her all three days she was admitted.

God, he was  _such_ a sucker for her, even back then.

He’d like to think he’s had a somewhat positive influence on her in the few months they’ve actually been together. Like maybe he takes some of the edge off her more obsessive tendencies - the calm to her storm, in a way. She’s  _seemed_ happier lately (damn his bias, he  _knows_ her - he  _knows_ she smiles more easily now, he  _knows_ there’s a simmering joy just inches from the surface of her very skin). She’s  _seemed_ a touch less stressed.

The oven beeps long and loud to his right, announcing the completion of the frozen pizza he’d thrown in twenty minutes earlier, and in the living room Amy releases a loud, strangled growl.

Not at him.

Well,  _mostly_ not at him.

Probably.

“This doesn’t make any  _sense_!” she says loudly, clutching the map in her hands so tightly an outside observer might guess she’s trying to strangle it. “The time frame just doesn’t  _make any sense_!”

He winces at the painful grate to her voice, grateful for the wall between them hiding his reaction. The smell of fresh pizza envelopes the entire kitchen as he pulls the oven door open and for a moment, he imagines the way his night would be going were he still single. Probably not much different, he muses as he pulls the pizza off the rack and deposits it on the counter, heat only just beginning to sink through the thick material of the oven mit he’d dug out of a drawer near the fridge.

He would have gone home right after his shift - only to drop off his bag and change out of his work clothes. He would have gone home, and then he would have immediately left - with Amy’s apartment as his destination. He would have stopped by Tony’s and grabbed a large pizza to-go, rather than putting in the extra effort to go and cooking one in an  _oven_ \- officially crossing the line into domesticity. But the fact remains: he would have been here, in her apartment, pizza in one hand and abundant patience in the other.

She’s still sitting exactly where he left her when he emerges from the kitchen ten minutes later - pizza cooled and cut and divvied out on two plates. She doesn’t look up at him when he pauses beside her, apparently too focused on a cell phone log to even notice his presence. “Ames,” he says softly.

She starts and whips her head up, like she forgot he was there. “What’s - what are -”

“It’s pizza. Y’know, for eating. Since you haven’t done that since yesterday morning and I could hear your stomach growling from the briefing room all day today.”

Her brow is furrowed in confusion and irritation but she drops the cell phone records and takes the plate he’s offering her without further comment. He settles on the floor near her - in what narrow space has not yet been overrun by paper - and leans back against the couch, forcing his gaze to focus on the shallow pool of grease gathering in the crisp concaved pepperoni near the crust while carefully cataloguing the sharp, jerky movements of Amy ripping a mouthful of pizza off with her teeth. She releases a strange humming noise as she chews; judging by the absent way she flips through the cell phone records before her, he’d guess she probably isn’t aware of it.

“So,” he says softly (though he needn’t have bothered, she still jumps), “I heard a funny joke from one of my perps today.”

She doesn’t react.

“Why did the painting go to jail?”

Silence, aside from the quiet rustle of paper moving.

“It was  _framed_.”

Her head twitches - as if fighting off the urge to glance at him.

“What did the baby corn say to the mama corn?”

She briefly closes her eyes and lets out a huff, adjusting her legs to cross a little bit tighter.

“Where’s  _pop_ corn?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Why was the woman afraid of the French restaurant?”

“Jake -”

“ _Why_ was the woman afraid of the French restaurant?”

She drops the paper in her hand with a loud sigh - apparently oblivious to the pizza-grease fingerprints smudged along the bottom - and tilts her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

“Because it gave her the  _crepes_.”

Slowly, her head falls to her right - and even his brightest, most convincing grin isn’t enough to wane the lines of stress puckering her brow. “What are you doing?”

“My best stuff, actually, so if you could just  _pretend_ -”

“You  _know_ I’m working this insane case - I can’t afford to get distracted. I’m sorry, but if you’re not gonna let me focus, I think it’s time for you to go home.”

He won’t lie, her words are a bit of a blow to his ego, but going home is absolutely out of the question. There’s a crack in the veneer now - all he has to do is wrench it a little bit wider.  _Before_ , his only option would have been more crappy jokes.

But it isn’t  _before_ anymore.

So he shuffles a little closer, taking care to avoid accidentally wrinkling any of her paperwork with his butt while also keeping his plate of pizza balanced. “You know,” he murmurs, ignoring the way she tenses as he draws in closer to her, “I haven’t gotten to talk to my girlfriend in, like, a week.”

“Yeah, well, she’s been a little busy.”

“Of  _course_ she has, she’s been busy being a  _badass_.” The corners of her mouth twitch skyward - and he bites the inside of his cheek. “But the thing is, I really miss her. I  _like_ talking to her.” He tilts his head down and presses his lips against her shoulder, feeling only the faintest impression of the smooth line of muscle there over the layer of tweed and shoulder pad. She releases another sigh - this one quieter and more peaceful than the last - and he smiles. “I like sitting with her on our lunch break and talking about how our days are going so far.” He drops another kiss to her shoulder - this one slightly closer to the upward curve of her neck - and then another, and another. “I like the way she gets all dorky and excited about really lame stuff like  _knitting_ or  _crossword puzzles_.” He’s reached the juncture of her neck now and he looks up just in time to see her tilt her head to the left, granting him better access, her eyes fluttered closed and lips parted just slightly. “I like it when she lets me talk to her about equally lame stuff like  _Die Hard_  or  _paintball_.” He kisses her neck - barely even a kiss, more of a brush of his lips - and she  _shivers_ ,  _actually shivers_. “I just really like  _her_.” He noses his way through the forest of hair fallen around her ear and kisses the hinge of her jaw, relishing in the way her papers slide out of her hands as she shifts further into him. “I know she’s really busy being a badass and saving the world, but I hope she knows how much I miss her.”

He means to press this kiss to her cheekbone but she turns at the last second, so his lips end up colliding with the side of her nose. Her fingers tunnel through his hair and before he can even muster up the idea of an apology she’s pulling him down, kissing him thoroughly, almost  _desperately_ , her free hand balling into a fist in the material of his flannel. The movement of her lips on his is hungry, clearly symptomatic of a deeper-seated issue - but he lets her take what she needs, lets her set the pace and the intensity.

He does ease back when her whole body begins to shift - clearly gearing up to straddle him - hands firm and soothing where they stroke along her sides. She’s breathing heavily when she finally relents and pulls away - but as the chaos subsides, the fog that has been clouding her vision fades. “There you are,” he murmurs through a small, encouraging smile.

She drops her head and a third sigh escapes her chest - as if the exhaustion suddenly visible in every part of her body has squeezed the air out of her lungs. She drops her head to his shoulder as she falls back to her original seated position on the floor and Jake tilts his head down so that his cheek presses against the top of her head, his smile only broadening as she reaches to loosely cling to his sleeve over his bicep. “I’m so tired,” she mumbles, voice high and thin.

“I know you are,” he says softly. “You haven’t been sleeping much, have you?”

She answers with a shake of her head and he covers her fingers with his right hand. “I’m sorry I told you to leave earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

“That’s okay. I was being annoying.”

“You were being a good, attentive boyfriend.” she corrects, and her head tilts up just as her lips press against his shoulder. “I was just too stressed to appreciate it in the moment.”

He hums, letting his left hand curl loosely over her knee, and for a moment they survey the chaos in her living room in silence. “I know you’ve got a lot of work to do on this case, but you really do need sleep, so how’s this sound - we stay up another hour and I help you as much as I can with all this, and then you let me tuck you in and clean all of this up so you can have your living room back.”

“Mm…can I make a counterproposal?”

“Shoot.”

“I go to bed right now but you stay here and be the big spoon for once.”

He chuckles as her body moves with the motion of her giggles against him, letting his thumb sweep out in a warm arch over her knee. “How ‘bout a compromise: I clean up the living room first, and then I stay here and be the big spoon.”

She lets out another thoughtful hum before turning her head again, this time to gently, playfully bite down on his shoulder. “Deal.”

“I’m officially trading in crappy jokes with kissing in the How To Distract Santiago From Acting Insane Playbook.”

“You have a whole  _playbook_?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18\. kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w o w i love a deeply emotional amy craving validation and not being able to pronounce words,,,,,,,,,,
> 
> ANYWAYS this is set the night of Captain Latvia!!!!!!

There are six empty glasses on the table before her. Six empty glasses.

She counts them all, lets her fingertips graze along the rims - some still sticky with the residue leftover from the drinks now coursing through her veins. One, two, three…

There are six empty glasses on the table before her, and there are tears welling in her eyes.

Oh, hell, she knew going out was a bad idea. She’d tried to tell Jake earlier - she’s  _tired_ , dammit, she just wants to go  _home_ \- but he’d convinced her to go. Something about spending time with Charles - something fractured in his gaze that suggested a conflict to which she’s not yet privy.

Manipulation at its finest.

So she’d come along, trying not to drag her feet, and he’d promptly abandoned her at a table with Gina and Scully to follow Charles to the dartboards.

And Gina decided that now was as good a time as any to see how drastically the Santiago Drunkenness Scale has changed now that Amy is in a happy, loving relationship.

(Amy’s words, not Gina’s.)

As it turns out, not a whole lot has changed. Still a little spacey, still a little loud, still a little dancey, still a little pervy, still a little confident.

Still a little lonely.

She can feel the exhaustion and the vertigo and the slow warmth tugging at her eyelids as she turns - very unsteadily - toward the interior of the bar. Gina’s cackling laughter is blending with the swell of music coming from the jukebox somewhere behind her and the crack of pool balls colliding sounds like a distant firework - a blinding flare, fading to nothingness before she can so much as grasp it. Terry’s leaning against the bar in deep, serious conversation with Holt, Rosa’s throwing darts at Hitchcock, and the bar is full, full, full of people she doesn’t know, people she’ll  _never_ know, people who don’t care who she is or why she’s here or if she has somewhere safe to go afterwards. People are everywhere,  _everywhere_ , and she’s  _so_ alone.

Bodies part as two large groups finally manage to maneuver past each other - and in the narrow space left between, Amy spots the back of Jake’s head.

Her body is already moving before she’s fully processed what she’s seeing.

It’s not that she’s uncoordinated when she’s this drunk. She’d venture to say she’s rather  _graceful_ \- movements fluid and pliable, making it easy for her to slip between people, like a babbling brook might around rocks that protrude from the water’s surface. She’s not outwardly drunk, not stumbling or falling, not clinging to anything solid to keep from face-planting on the floor and never getting up again.

But her body  _does_ have its limits - and apparently, those limits are reached at Jake’s close proximity. The moment he’s within reach her knees give out; only her hand on his shoulder keeps her from falling to the floor, acting instead as a hinge, somehow sending her collapsing backwards and around and right into his lap.

(There  _may_ be guiding hands on her back and sides, hands that are blessedly warm and strong and familiar, hands that are now stroking something soothing along whatever decent parts of her he can reach.)

“Whoa, hi, babe,” he says and it’s so  _soft_ , so sweet and concerned and she could just  _cry_. “Are you okay? You almost wiped out there -”

“I wanted to see you,” she says, angling her torso in such a way that her head nestles perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he says, the hand on her back slowly creeping higher as he gently scratches her back. “You pretty drunk?”

She nods and he smells so good, so good and spicy and outdoorsy, and  _damn_ she’s so glad she bought that scent of Old Spice deodorant and body wash because it is every bit as good as she thought it would be when she found it in the drug store. The hand not wandering up her back is on her thigh, probably holding her closer to keep her from sliding bonelessly to the floor beneath the table, but his thumb is stroking a repetitive pattern over her pants and  _god_ she can’t want to go home and take her pants off and go to sleep.

“What number are you on?”

“I’m not…” she blows out a laugh between her teeth and the sound is so funny, like a cross between a hiss and whatever sound a rattlesnake makes - a hiss. “I’m not  _on_ a  _number_ , I’m - I’m on your  _lap_.”

“Is Seven-Drink Amy a comedian?” she hears Charles ask, his voice a hushed whisper barely audible over the blood rushing in her ears.

Jake snorts, chest vibrating against her arm, and she’d like to just cuddle up into a ball small enough to fit in the frayed pocket of his shirt, right over his heart. “Ames,” the hand on her thigh disappears for a brief moment before gently tapping the side of her face not tucked against his shoulder - and his thumb is stroking her cheekbone now and oh god she’s gonna cry, it’s gonna happen. Slowly, arm trembling beneath the weight of her body, she pushes up to meet his gaze; he smiles softly, brows drawn together in acute concern, and now she’s  _actually_ crying. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, his other hand suddenly against the other side of her face, thumbs sweeping out to swipe away her tears. “What’s wrong, why are you crying?”

“I just - I don’t know,” she mumbles, and gosh her hands look weird all blurry in her lap. “I love you and I missed you and - and I love you.”

He’s laughing a little but she’s pretty sure it’s not at her, so she smiles something small and watery and lets him tilt her head down to press a kiss against her forehead. “I’m glad you came and found me, Six-Drink Amy,” he murmurs, tucking her head back down against his shoulder and resuming the steady, comforting scratch of his short nails against her back. “I missed you, too. And,” he turns his head, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, “I love you so,  _so_ much.”

She closes her eyes and lets the comfort fully envelop her senses, letting herself melt against him. “It’s not too late, Jake,” she hears Charles hiss. “If you leave right now, you’ll still have time -”

“I thought we were done with that part of the conversation,” Jake interrupts, his grip on Amy’s thigh momentarily tightening with the sudden sharpness in his voice. She’s got this nagging feeling that they’re still talking even though the words have stopped - solely through facial expressions, so as not to alert her - but she just can’t even pretend to care, not with Jake this close, smelling this good, feeling this warm. So she snuffles out a sigh and nestles closer, wondering exactly how long she’ll be able to get away with dozing off on his lap in the middle of Shaw’s with it being this crowded.

“You guys should get home,” Charles suddenly says, voice brusque and loud in that clearly-suggestive-while-trying-not-to-be-obvious way of his, and even in her drunken and emotional stupor she manages to roll her eyes beneath her eyelids. “Quickly. In the next two hours.”

“We got it, thanks,” Jake snaps, and then his cheek made rough with what sparse, coarse hair he’s managed to grow since he shaved this morning brushes against her forehead. “You wanna walk back to the car, or should I carry you?”

She laughs and her whole body shakes,  _aches_ , she’s so sore from all the laughter, all the non-stop laughter from the moment he stepped into her life, and only he ever makes her laugh like this. “Can’t carry me,” she mumbles through her laughter, and now he’s shaking, too, like he finds it all just as funny as she does. “Too many people, it’s in- inap-propropr- inappropriate.”

“What’s inappropriate about it? You’re my girlfriend, I think I’m allowed to carry you out of a bar if you want me to.”

She  _is_ his girlfriend and it’s so nice,  _so_ nice, to think of some part of herself being his just as some part of himself is hers. Like a built-in sense of security and reassurance - no matter what, she always has Jake, just as Jake always has her. And he always  _has_ had her, he’s had her back in the field and her trust in their friendship and her heart in their relationship. He has her, he  _has_ her.

“Don’t worry, Ames. I’ve got you,” he says, calm and steady as he angles his body to shift them both out of the booth. Sober Amy will probably be mortified in the morning but right now, she doesn’t care - the thrill that runs through her when Jake promptly scoops her up in a bridal carry the moment her feet touch the ground is heady and undeniable, compelling her to sling her arms around his neck with every intention of never letting go again.

(She’s exhausted and hungover the next morning, but despite the photographic evidence sent via text from Gina of her assisted exit the night before, she’s filled only with contentment.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12\. a hoarse whisper "kiss me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so…………this got dark. i have nothing to say for myself aside from sorry lmfao
> 
> BUT HEY CHARACTER GROWTH - THIS TIME I TORTURED JAKE INSTEAD OF AMY :-)

Through the forest of bodies swarming the front lawn before him, Jake sees only her face. She’s pale, too pale, and her face is pinched with panic and fear and determination, and even through the aching pain that seems to course through his very veins, all he really feels is profound relief. She hasn’t seen him yet, but he staggers toward her anyways, unsteady on his feet but still able to slip through converging EMTs’ grabbing hands with ease. A quiet, cracking grunt slips through his clenched teeth when his bare feet stagger over the frost-encrusted ground; a feeling not unlike short-circuiting wiring shoots up both legs at the sensation.

That’s to be expected, he thinks, considering his feet haven’t so much as touched the ground in three full days.

Caution tape stands out stark in the winter-muted forest, marking the perimeter of this long-forgotten one-room cabin-turned-torture-chamber, but even it fades to grey in his vision - nothing,  _nothing_ compares to the red of her blouse and the pink of her cheeks and the honey of her eyes, her eyes, alight with desperation and joy and concern all at once, her eyes now fixated on his face.

“ _Jake_!” His name sounds so broken and ragged when it leaves her lips like that and he’s running, now, shoving people out of his way without so much as a glance, adrenaline flooding every perimeter of his body to move heaven and earth, propelling him toward her. It’s been three days since he last saw her in the flesh but it’s felt like eternities, like the entire expanse of time and space has passed in the interim, and she’s here and whole and present and here. And they collide like falling timbers, like crashing waves, like mountains groaning and crumbling, and a brand new universe explodes in a dizzying array of lights and colors behind his scrunched-shut eyelids. He’s in her arms and it’s where he’s always belonged and she is the sun and stars and moons and the pull, the gravitational pull at the stark center of his being.

Her fingers curl in his hair and her tears soak into his tattered shirt and every watt of electricity that fried through his body and every lash of the whip against his back and every blow of the tree limbs and steel-toed boots and fists was  _worth_ surviving because it got him  _here_ , it got him back to  _her_. There’s an earthquake in his bones and a hurricane in his blood but like an angel descending from on high she’s here, she’s calm and still and the focal point within the chaos.

There are deep wounds on his wrists from the bindings by which he’d hung, blending in with the myriad, the portrait of torture painting his body, but he can’t feel them - he can’t feel anything, really, except her, except  _Amy_ , warm and steady and strong. And she smells so good and she feels so good and she doesn’t know that she’s the only reason he survived this long, doesn’t know that even in the darkness of unconsciousness she’s the one he saw.

She has to know. She  _has_ to.

“A-Amy,” his voice sounds harsh and foreign, croaking and gravelly from the screams Maliardi wrung from his lips, and the world is tilting and disintegrating and stripping away and he’s falling but he won’t because Amy’s still in his arms and if he holds on tight enough the world will right itself again. “Am- _my_ ,” he tries again, but he sounds worse, and now she’s pulling away and hands are prying at his arms locked tight around her and  _no_ he’s not going to let go of her, not now not ever, no, no,  _no_. “ _Amy_!”

Hands are on his face and he can’t make any sense of the shapes he’s seeing, the world gone blurry and fogged, but her voice is sharp in his ears. “ _It’s okay!_ ” she cries and it’s still so desperate and ragged, the words are made of sandpaper. “I’m not going  _anywhere_ , but you have to let go - trust me,  _trust me_  -”

The pillar of her body pushes him backwards and then he’s falling, twisting, sliding - something flat and soft like a bed or a hammock or something, and there are fingers at his hairline, a thumb stroking his forehead, and an insistent warmth wrapped tight around his left hand. The earthquake in his bones has seeped into the earth and everything is trembling, groaning, even the breeze on his face is uneven. People are shouting and a siren is rising and falling like a forlorn warning, and through the deafening chaos her voice stays close.

“They got him, babe, they got him, it’s all okay - I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner Jake, I’m sorry I could stop him from hurting you, oh, please,  _please_ be okay, please, please,  _please_ …”

Pain is pouring through every last molecule of his body - as if her proximity has opened the floodgates for all that he’s managed to suppress - but the brush of her parted, quivering lips over his forehead ignites his nerve-endings like a livewire. He doesn’t remember laying down on a gurney or being loaded into the back of an ambulance but when he manages to part his eyelids that’s where he finds himself - under the bright light, an EMT working feverishly on an IV in his right arm, and Amy folding in on herself to his left, all but drowning in tears. She’s terrified and it makes his chest clench, makes him burn from the inside out with a rage unlike any he’s felt before, but then her trembling left hand touches the side of his face and her thumb gently swipes just under his eye and he’s consumed, body and soul, with reverent adoration.

“Love you,” he hears himself rasp, and her tears are renewed, her whole body wracked with sobs that send his instincts screaming for him to  _hold_ and  _soothe_ and  _protect_. “Love you, I love -  _love Amy_ ,” vertigo juts up between his eyes and tangles the words around his tongue and he fights it, fights it with what little strength he has left, pinpointing his focus on what bits of warmth her hands impart against his skin. He forces his eyes open again and she’s there, hovering over him, her expression one of intense concern, the lights above their heads illuminating the halo around her hair, and my god his wife really is some heavenly creature walking the earth. “Kiss me,” he breathes.

She glances up, and a voice says “ _gently_ ,” and then she’s looking back at him and caressing the side of his face one last time before leaning in and kissing him softer than he’s ever been kissed before.

She kisses him and the chaos fades, the pain subsides, the final strand by which he’s been hanging snaps - and as the sweet, comfortable darkness overcomes his senses, he lets himself fall gracefully, knowing she’ll be right there with him when he comes back to the surface later.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10\. staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i got FOUR REQUESTS for this one on tumblr LMAO)
> 
> Y’ALL ARE ALL REALLY JUST DESPERATE FOR SOME PINING AREN’T U LMFAO HOW ABOUT SOME ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP PINING!!!!!

Amy’s wearing lipstick again.

She’s wearing lipstick and it’s the same shade of red as the little flecks of color in her floral blouse, and when she purses her lips while deep in thought or smiles kindly at a civilian passing by, Jake feels his heart stutter. She’s wearing lipstick and it’s not fair, not fair how sharp the sudden pang of longing is in his chest. The pang of longing that doesn’t even make any sense anymore, considering she’s actually for reals his  _girlfriend_ and everyone else knows now. He’d always thought that the yearning would subside should he ever be lucky enough to call her his girlfriend.

He’d thought that, but here he is - Amy Santiago’s boyfriend, currently struggling to concentrate on anything other than her lips painted red across the desks between them.

For all her usual perceptivity and quick wit, she seems rather oblivious to his delima. She’s just carrying on as usual, frowning at her computer screen, tapping the end of her pen against her lips while deep in thought, grinning broad and bright at Charles across the floor. She’s unbelievable, so beautiful it’s disarming, and just who the hell does she think she is, being so perfect and so far away from him?

But no, he thinks, no, they can’t do that. Not here, at least. Someone is still printing stills from the evidence lockup video and stuffing them in his locker and Amy’s face still heats up any time Terry stares at her for longer than a split-second and they’d agreed, no PDA whatsoever at the precinct. The only rule they didn’t throw out the night she turned up at his apartment to throw caution to the wind, the night they spent three whole hours making out on his couch, and god she’s a good kisser and her lipstick is a little bit smudged, a faded red streak down onto her chin.

“Ames,” her attention snaps from her computer screen to his face and a  _school-boy thrill_  shoots down his spine at the look in her eyes, like they’re sharing a secret. “You, uh -” he points to his chin. “Your pen, it smudged your lipstick.”

She points to the spot and he nods, and then she ducks down under her desk to grab at her purse. “Shoot,” she mutters as she reemerges - already checking her reflection in her compact mirror. “I’ll be right back.”

She scurries off to the bathroom quickly and he watches her go, watches the way her hair shimmers and shines beneath the fluorescent lights as she passes. And when she disappears around the corner he stares at the empty space she last occupied, grappling with the overwhelming desire to follow her for all of five seconds.

He loses.

Two beat cops in uniform nod politely as he passes them, but otherwise the hallway outside the bathroom is empty. He ends up passing the women’s room door, stooping beside the water fountain mounted to the wall between the women’s room and the men’s room, pretending to fiddle with the lever just in case someone else emerges before Amy.

He needn’t have bothered - she appears less than ten seconds later, the lipstick smudge gone. Her satisfied expression morphs to one of surprise when he grabs her wrist; her surprised expression morphs to one of amusement just before he smothers her laugh with his lips.

She hums, maybe in satisfaction, possibly in dissent, probably in some combination of the two - but she doesn’t pull away. So he winds his arms around her waist and shivers when she gently combs her fingers through his hair, and together they shuffle around so that Amy’s back brushes against the wall beside the bathroom door.

“Mm-mmmhm,” she plants both palms on his biceps and pushes him backwards firmly, until their lips finally break contact. He leans back just far enough to look her in the eye - still alight with amusement, but certainly a little more foggy than before. “God,  _took_ you long enough.” she says through a grin.

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at me for, like, three hours now. I was starting to think you were plotting my murder or something.”

He laughs and tilts his head forward, letting his forehead bump lightly against hers. “I was trying to figure out how bad you’d hurt me if I just threw you over my shoulder like a caveman and dragged you back here.”

“Aw, I only would have strangled you a little bit.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

She chuckles, one hand leaving his bicep to gently touch the side of his face. “Are you good, now?”

“You still have that lipstick on, so, no.”

She rears her head back slightly, genuine surprise flattening the lines of her face, and when she reaches to touch her lips she does so in an absent, almost dream-like way. “It was the lipstick?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah. What’d you think it was?”

“I don’t know! I mean, I haven’t worn my hair down in awhile, I thought -”

“Oh, yeah, that was part of it, too, but like…I’m just not used to seeing you in lipstick and it - it… _does things_.”

She dissolves into laughter, real, earnest laughter, and despite the fact that he  _knows_ it’s at his own expense, he can’t help but to smile - not when she sounds so joyful, so happy, because of him. “Badass Jake Peralta can’t handle a little red lipstick on a woman?” she chides.

“Not when it makes her look this good.”

“Well…” she’s reaching up again, touching his face again, thumbs stroking his cheekbones softly and he’s melting putty in her hands. She leans in close, so close he can feel the heat of her skin against his ear. “Too bad the same can’t be said about  _you_.” she whispers.

It takes him a moment, in all honesty, but when she rocks back on her heels with a goofy grin on her face, it hits him. “Oh,  _shit_ ,” he mutters over her cackling laughter.

He leaves her doubled over with laughter as he races into the men’s room - blessedly empty, aside from his flushed, red-lipstick-smeared face reflected back at him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED to be platonic for the entire squad SO

“You’ve never noticed, have you? How much you’ve softened up to the squad over the years?”

Holt’s voice is quiet, but it carries clearly over the din of celebration stretching Shaw’s to its seams. Jake blinks away the rosy glow tinting his vision and forces himself to focus on Holt’s face; his captain is smiling, clearly on the verge of the level of inebriation he’d reached at Jake’s bachelor party. Jake tilts his glass for one last swig, hardly feeling the burn of whatever fruity concoction Charles ordered for him on the way down. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he asks as his now-empty glass hits the table.

“They love you,” Holt says, gesturing toward the interior of the bar, where the tables have been cleared to make room for the impossible folds of Amy’s skirt and the borderline-spastic dance moves Gina’s currently unleashing in the area not filled with Amy’s skirt. They’re all smiling - they’re all laughing - and as Terry reaches over Gina’s head to grab Amy’s hand and spin her, Jake finds himself subconsciously mirroring their bright grins. “I’ve said before how proud I am of you and all the growth you’ve shown - but it’s not just you. The team, the  _squad_ has grown - did you ever think five years ago that you may one day end up here?”

Five years ago he would have been hard-pressed to sacrifice a Saturday night to come to Shaw’s with all of his coworkers -  _especially_ his captain. Five years ago Amy was nothing more to him than the competition in a bet that would alter the trajectory of his entire life. Five years ago he was alone, the child of a father who didn’t want him, a cop whose work was all he really had.

Five years ago seems like an eternity.

“They’re a family, now,” Holt says quietly, and though he’s still smiling when Jake’s head swivels unsteadily back around, even Jake can detect the pensiveness behind his eyes through his own drunkenness. “They’re a family and it’s because of  _you_. Because you let yourself be vulnerable, you let yourself fall in love. Not just with Amy - with all of them. Haven’t you seen it? Haven’t you felt it?”

And he has, now that he’s letting himself think about it. He  _has_ seen it - in Charles’ sometimes brutal honesty cracking through the fanboy veneer, in what little glimmers of softness shine through Rosa’s hardened exterior, in the touches of humanity breaking through Gina’s indifferent surface, in the fatherly guidance growing ever-stronger in Terry’s detached professionalism. He’s seen it, he’s felt it, he’s fallen in love with it - and they’re not his coworkers, they’re not his squad, they’re his  _family_.

Like a blazing spotlight Amy’s eyes find him through the crowd and Jake feels himself rising up to his feet, all but floating toward her and her outstretched hand and her ring that he carried in his pocket from the day after he was released from prison up until the day he fit it down snug on her finger. He takes her hand and she pulls him into a kiss, a lazy, happy kiss, one that has the rest of the squad cheering and wolf-whistling even after they break apart. He’s in  _love_ , he’s  _drowning_ in it, Amy’s arms slung over his shoulders with ease and Charles’ hands clapping against his shoulders and Rosa’s elbow nudging against his ribs and Gina’s fingers ruffling his hair and Terry’s drunk-clumsy hands patting against his face. He’s in love as they dance, as the music fills what empty space is leftover inside his chest, as he throws his arms over Charles’ and Gina’s shoulders and nearly tips them all over in some drunken attempt at the can-can.

He’s in love when Holt clambers up on the first rung of the barstool upon which Terry is sitting to make a toast, shouting “ _to Jake and Amy!_ ” even as Terry leans backwards and knocks him off-balance, sending him stumbling and falling and throwing his full glass of beer clear across the room. He’s in love when Hitchcock and Scully start a rendition of Marvin Gaye just to be pelted with peanuts on all sides - Rosa and Gina and Charles certainly know how to create a formation with ease.

“We should - we should go home,” Amy murmurs through a hiccup and he  _loves_ her, loves her disheveled hair and her smudged mauve lipstick and the way her half-mast eyes track his every move. He nods and offers her his hand - as if he has some steadiness to offer her, which he most certainly does  _not_. But she takes it anyways and he’s in love as she leans into him and they both stumble, weak at the knees from the dancing and the laughing and the alcohol and the  _love_.

“We’re heading home,” Jake says as they pause by the table Holt is sharing with Terry, and Holt’s eyes are bloodshot but so happy as his gaze flickers up to his face. “We’re, we’re -” he stops to laugh, latching onto the back of Terry’s chair to keep from falling, because Terry’s sprawled out on the table sound asleep with a beer bottle cuddled close to his chest and if that’s not the funniest thing Jake’s ever seen, he doesn’t know what is. “We’re leaving.”

“Goodnight, detective. Sergeant.” Holt nods slowly to them each, before returning his gaze to Terry - and the splintered peanut shells he’s flicking across the table between them. Jake snorts and Amy’s gripping his arm with her other hand now, her forehead pressed against his shoulder blade, her laughter warming his back through his jacket. He leans down toward his Captain, and Holt moves automatically - a tilt of his head, a jut of his jaw, angling his head toward Jake without ever turning his attention from Terry.

Jake smashes his lips against Holt’s cheek without a second thought.

Gina’s chatting up one of the new bartenders when they approach and though she tries to dismiss them, Jake tugs on the back of her barstool - and again, without breaking eye-contact with the bartender, she bows her head and tilts it, just enough for him to comfortably kiss her forehead.

“You outta here?” Rosa grunts as they approach her darkened lair by the dartboards.

“Flight leaves early in the morning,” Amy says, her cheek now flattened against his bicep. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll never make it.”

“Have fun. Bone each other a lot.”

“Only ‘cause you asked,” Jake says, feigning sheepishness. Rosa smirks as she lines up to take her next shot, but she doesn’t get the chance - Amy’s tugging her into a fierce hug. Perhaps it’s the joy of the last few hours or the  _abundance_ of alcohol singing in her veins - whatever it is, Rosa hugs her back just as fiercely, and Jake’s never been more in love.

And when Amy pulls away - when Rosa plants her feet and lines up her shot again - he doesn’t hesitate to swoop in and kiss her cheek.

“No more for either of you,” she mutters without glancing back. “Leave now before I dismember one of you.”

Charles greets them at the door with arms opened wide and tears in his eyes - it seems this day is even more emotional for him than it is for either of them. Which checks out, if Jake really thinks about it. Charles’ hug is long and uncomfortable but Amy’s hands rubbing at his back are not; Jake finds himself sighing in contentment as Charles pulls back, both hands on his face and undeniable pride in his shining eyes. “I’ve never been more proud,” he says in a choked whisper.

“Love you, buddy,” Jake says, leaning back in for another hug.

“Nuh-uh, come to papa.”

He all but thrusts his face up and Jake rears back, but not fast enough - his mouth smashes briefly against Charles’ stubbly cheek. Amy’s laughter drowns out Jake’s groan, and even now he’s in love, he’s in love he’s in  _love he’s in love_.

“I’m in love,” he hears himself murmur as he spills out onto the street with Amy. She’s still laughing, still wearing that wedding dress, still clinging to his arm, still the girl of his dreams and the love of his life. “I’m so in love.”

“Cab’s here,” she says, hand raising to point at the cab parked by the curb across the street, but she doesn’t move toward it. “Cab’s - I’m - I love you.”

Her head falls back as he turns to look down at her, and she’s smiling up at him, expression overflowing with peace and serenity and joy. He closes his eyes against the near-painful surge of affection around his heart, and opens them just in time to watch her press her chin against his shoulder. “I love you so much,” he says, and she sighs, and tilts her head forward, and when he presses his lips against her forehead he hears her hum in quiet contentment.

“Let’s go home,” she whispers into his sleeve.

“Already there,” he mumbles, and she tilts her head back to reveal an inquisitive look. “I’m with  _you_ , aren’t I?”

“That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve  _ever_ said to me. I want a divorce.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I’M STILL HERE I TOOK A BRIEF UNPLANNED 3.5 WEEK BREAK FROM HUMANITY BUT I’M STILL ALIVE SORT OF SO!! TO CELEBRATE!! MY SOMEWHAT TRIUMPHANT RETURN!! AND!! THE RELEASE OF THE ACTUAL REAL-LIFE TRAILER FOR S6!! HERE!! U!! GO!!

Red paint is smudged down the side of Jake’s nose.

The tip of his tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth every few seconds, accentuating the intense focus radiating from each line of his face. The paint on his nose is red, but there are flecks of yellow and brown up near his hairline, and another blue smudge curved beneath the edge of his jaw. He leans back an inch, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead absently - leaving behind a streak of green paint that speckles in his right eyebrow with the movement.

From her hidden perch in the living room, Amy stifles a laugh against the palm of her hand. She doesn’t think he’s noticed her watching him yet - she’d be shocked if he has, in all honesty, considering this is the most focused she’s ever seen him and she once took him to a  _Die Hard_ -themed trivia night. He leans back and purses his lips, the intense focus taking on a more critical quality as he holds the figurine he’s been painstakingly painting up beneath the unforgiving kitchen lights.

When Captain Holt told her about the recruitment video earlier in the day, she hadn’t spared it much of a thought. In terms of placement, the video fell toward the bottom of her post-honeymoon-catch-up to-do list - not to be forgotten about, obviously, but certainly not to be prioritized.

Her husband, it seems, thought differently.

She’d offered to help on the drive home after he’d given her a run-down of his grand vision. 

He’d laughed in her face.

And then he’d (rather sheepishly) asked if he could borrow some of her art supplies.

He’s been at it for the last three hours, and while it certainly isn’t museum-quality work, she has to admit that he’s doing a bit better than she thought he might. The buildings actually look like buildings - perhaps a bit to rounded and cartoon-esque, but certainly recognizable as a downtown skyline - and as he carefully works a thin wire around the landing skid of what will become a helicopter just as soon as the hot glue gun finishes heating up, Amy feels a familiar pulse of mixed affection and exasperation in her chest.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious that he’s not coming to bed any time soon.

“How’s it going in here?” Amy asks softly from the kitchen doorway. He hums, his gaze never leaving the wire he’s oh-so-carefully securing, and the tip of his tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth again. “You planning on coming to bed soon?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching for the vaguely-him-shaped figurine and the loose end of the wire now hanging from the landing skid. “Just gotta finish attaching myself to this helicopter thingy, and then I gotta put together the helicopter, and then I gotta hang it over the building. Oh, and fire. Gotta make fire.”

She watches him wind the wire around the figurine’s wrist a few times before kicking off the doorframe and trotting past him, grabbing his empty coffee mug from where it sits forgotten on the counter behind him and running it under the tap before putting it in the dishwasher. “Well, don’t stay up too late,” she says as she pads back toward him - and his shoulders are stiff beneath her fingers. “The visuals are important, but not as important as the story itself, y’know?”

He lowers his hands to the table and glances back at her, an epiphany suddenly breaking through the focus. “You’re totally right,” he says, “I should write the whole story out, too!”

“That’s not what I - uh,” he’s already focused back on the figurine, a new kind of mania overtaking his movements. The urge to argue only lasts another moment or two before she sighs - she recognizes a lost cause when she sees one, especially when it comes to Jake and his hyper-fixations. “Just - just try not to wake me up when you do come to bed, okay?”

“You got it, babe.”

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as she leans around to his left side - and again, without looking up from his figurine, he tilts his head up and to the right, presenting his stubbly cheek to her. His skin is warm and familiar beneath her lips and for half a second, her whole heart longs for the seclusion of their honeymoon - but then he’s settling back into his seat, humming under his breath, and a smile creeps over her face before she can stop it.

He wakes her up again later - to show her the little Amy figurine he made, complete with her favorite pink-and-dark-grey pant suit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn’t even TRY to make this creative like welcome to the 0% plot ficlet welcome to jake and amy blatantly making out welcome to HELL

Jake’s apartment is messy.

It’s not something Amy particularly wants to think about, what with his tongue in her mouth and his hands traveling the expanse of her back from her hips all the way up to her hair - but dammit, she’s thinking about it. She’s thinking about it as they stumble through the doorway, she’s thinking about it as her heels catch on the soft material of some article of clothing (a hoodie, she’d be willing to bet) lying discarded right there in his entry way, she’s thinking about it as he kicks the door shut and promptly hauls her up against it.

It’s  _messy_ , she can  _sense_ it, and she hasn’t even  _seen_ it yet.

She tells herself she doesn’t care. She tells herself she can handle a little messy - she’s been handling it for the last three weeks that they’ve been dating, and the six years of partnership before that, thank you very much. Besides,  _messiness_ is as inherent a fiber of his very being as  _loud_ and  _boisterous_ and  _intelligent_. She can’t disparage him that, especially not when he complies with her strict shoes-by-the-door policy when he comes around to her place.

His half-hum-half-groan brings her back to the present moment - which is to say, him struggling to untuck her blouse from her dress pants while she absently undoes his tie - and a pulse of guilt washes through her. It wasn’t that long ago that Jake’s kiss made her brain short-circuit. It wasn’t that long ago that she felt simultaneously weak at the knees and ready to blast off into the night at the desperate, whiney noises he makes when he’s turned on _just so_. It wasn’t that long ago that she could effectively lose whatever ties her obsessive tendencies hold over her to just  _feel_ , and yet -

And yet, here she is, pinned between Jake’s door and Jake’s chest, his hands pressing and pulling and demanding her attention which is firmly fixated on the hoodie still caught on her shoe.

“Jake,” she gasps and he ignores her, hands shifting down to her ribcage as his lips quickly draw a messy line down her jaw and onto her neck. “Jake, there’s - Jake -”

He hums - it might be a question - and her knees actually do go weak at the delicate razor’s edge of his teeth against her pulse point. Her hands automatically grip at his biceps, the closest solid point upon which she can anchor herself, and his thumbs swipe up along the ridge of her ribs in response.

“There’s something stuck on my foot,” she finally manages to rasp.

He freezes for a split second before pulling back, leaving just enough space between them for him to glance down at their feet without actually losing his grip on her sides. “Oh,” he mutters - and then tries to disentangle the jacket from her feet with his own foot, prompting her to drop her gaze and shift her weight in an attempt to appease his efforts. It takes a moment - a few half-hearted kicks and frustrated grunts from Jake - but finally, mercifully, the jacket comes loose and slides across the floor, into the shadowy bowels of his apartment. “There,” he says through a satisfied grin. “Now, where were we?”

Her laughter his smothered against his lips and she can feel him smiling against her, his hands somehow warmer than before, though no less demanding. They slide around to her back, pulling her further into his chest - further away from the door, further into his apartment. He’s edging backwards, his feet sliding flat across the floor, as if to test the space behind him for unseen obstacles. And Amy’s laughing into his persistent, ardent kiss, laughing in spite of the wreck she knows she’s stumbling into, laughing in spite of the  _new_ article of clothing caught around her foot despite Jake’s apparent best efforts. He stumbles and mutters a quiet curse against her lips when his foot swings out and catches on the leg of his desk situated just around the corner of his entry way, and she’s  _still_ laughing.

“Like your laugh,” he mumbles between fervent kisses to her chin, her jaw, the corners of her mouth. “Like that you - that you stay.”

They’re at the foot of the bed now, the edge of the mattress pressed against her leg, and though Jake seems insistent on not breaking their kiss his hands have left her to frantically wrestle with the buttons of his flannel shirt. “‘Course I stay,” she mutters, pulling back to yank her shirt up over her head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“S’messy,” he says as he yanks his own undershirt up over his head. “Like,  _gross_ messy.”

“I don’t care about that,” she says as she stoops to unzip her boots. He pauses for the first time since leaving the car downstairs, brows raised in obvious disbelief. “Okay, I care, obviously I care,” she concedes, and he smirks as he toes his own shoes off. “But I - like you more than I care about messy.”

He presses a hand over his heart, expression taking an awe-struck quality she can discern even in the scant light pouring in through the windows behind her. “I’m touched,” he says, pretending to be choked up for all of half a moment. “This is a pants-free zone, Santiago.”

“I’m not the one who isn’t adhering to the dress code, Peralta,” she snaps playfully as she shucks her pants down her legs to pool on the floor at her feet. He’s still struggling with his belt, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. “C’mon, you’re burning moonlight.”

He finally manages to wrench the belt free, and in seconds his jeans are crumpled at his feet and he’s practically tripping over them in his haste to get back in her space. His still-socked feet trod over her bare toes but he swallows her surprised and somewhat pained yelp, fingers pressing brazenly against her spine, and whatever irritation she felt over her slightly-crushed toes immediately disappears beneath the weight of affection bursting in her chest.

They seem to struggle for a moment - two opposing forces pushing and pulling each other simultaneously - and in the end, Amy wins. They twist in such a way that when they fall, Jake lands on his back, Amy on her hands and knees above him - and before he can so much as get his bearings, she’s clambering up the bed until their faces are even once more. “You sure you don’t mind the mess?” he asks as she settles over him, his forced bravado stripped in the wake of his vulnerability and insecurity.

She leans down and kisses him soundly, hands framing his face even after she leans away again. “I absolutely do not mind the mess, Jake.” she says firmly, sweeping her thumbs over his cheekbones.

(She really doesn’t, but that doesn’t stop her from complaining the next morning when she wakes up to a stale half-eaten pretzel crushed beneath her hip.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17\. height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow remember when i reblogged those kiss prompts like 6 months ago and i wrote like 4 before dropping off the face of the planet???
> 
> anyways this is really stupid and i wrote it while watching taylor swift’s reputation stadium tour on netflix (read: openly weeping at the long live/new year’s eve acoustic mash-up) and despite the fact that i originally wanted to make it kind of dramatic it ended up being,,,,,,,,,,,this,,,,

Something feels…off.

“Did you shave another quarter-inch off the sole of my shoes again?”

Jake glances at her, a brow arched. “Again?” he repeats, his attention already back on the burger patties sizzling on the griddle before him. “When have I ever done that?”

“Six months after I started at the Nine-Nine, I caught you shaving a quarter-inch off the heels of my work boots when I left them at my desk after I changed into my workout clothes -”

“Oh  _yeah_ ,” he interrupts with a laugh. “That was a good prank.”

“That was a stupid, aggravating prank, and I never left any of my shoes unattended with you again, except now you live with me and I  _can’t_ guard my shoes twenty-four- _seven_ , it’s just not possible.”

“Why would you think that I’m shaving height off your shoes again?”

Amy huffs and narrows her eyes - head tilted up higher than usual, she’s certain of it. “You’re taller than usual!” she shouts, backing away a pace. “I know you didn’t grow, so the only other explanation I have is that you went in my closet on your day off last week and shaved height off of all my shoes -”

“Which would be a solid conclusion - if you were actually wearing shoes right now.”

She blinks and glances down - at her sock-clad feet.

He’s grinning when she meets his gaze again.

“You did something,” she says, with far less conviction than before.

“Maybe I’m just feeling a little taller lately.” he suggests, pressing the spatula over one patty, and then the other. “I just moved in with a super hot babe who loves me, I’m basically on top of the world right now.”

He flashes her a winning smile; she narrows her eyes in response. “Not hearing any definitive statements in there, buddy.”

“How’s this for a definitive statement?” The spatula clatters against the counter as he slings an arm around her waist, drawing her up to the balls of her feet. Their lips collide in a messy slide, and she smiles in spite of herself.

She pulls away slowly, laughing when he kisses the end of her nose as her eyelids flutter open. He nods, clearly satisfied with himself - and straightens up as he steps away.

“You’re taller, you’re  _definitely_ taller!” she shouts.

“Oh, yeah, I put lifts in my shoes earlier.”

He snickers as her jaw drops. “But  _why_?”

“To see how long it’d take for you to notice.”

She shakes her head slowly, only barely aware of the fact that her mouth is still hanging open. “You’re  _so_ stupid,” she finally murmurs.

“Huh, I guess it’s true.”

“What?”

“Short people really  _are_ angrier.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s
> 
> 10\. staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummmm heyyyyy let’s pretend like this isn’t like 4 months late shall we?
> 
> anyways i’ve been struggling to build a premise around these prompts for…oh…4 months now and today i finally landed on one that kind of works. it’s a little weird and AU BUT it’s also, like, gratuitous making out and it’s also borderline plotless so it has that going for it i guess?
> 
> basically it’s a superhero au very, VERY loosely based on tua, in that i took superpowers from that universe and applied them to jake and amy (and rosa but only vaguely in passing conversation). so understanding tua is not in any way necessary to understanding this au, i’ve just been obsessed with a superhero au lately and i decided to give it a try with this prompt and it worked out a little better than i was expecting.

She’s three paces away from his front door before the panic finally overtakes the calm and she freezes mid-step.

The hallway is quiet, only the faintest sounds of muffled televisions and clinking dishes meeting her through the series of closed doors lining either side, and she’s certain that if she strains hard enough she could probably pick out the sounds of his voice over all others.

(That’s a new ability she’s noticed about herself as of late - she can bend the fabric of space and time, and she can hone in on Jake’s voice even over the cacophony of an explosion. Nevermind the fact that neither seem related on paper, it’s  _fact_.)

(It’s also so much easier to feed the beast of denial prowling like a lion in the back of her mind.)

She lets out a small groan and grips the straps of the tote hanging off of her right shoulder a little harder. The stiff fabric cuts into the places where her fingers curl and she closes her eyes, trying to focus on it over the rising panic in her gut. This is fine. This is normal. She’s been here close to a dozen times before, especially as of late. It’s  _normal_.

Except, of course, for the fact that her mask is buried somewhere in the bowels of her tote and not firmly affixed to her face to cover her eyes, the way it has been every other time she’s been here before. That’s different. That’s new.

But she can still see the way his mouth had flattened in that grim, determined grimace earlier. She can still see the way he’d pointed upwards, his brows raised in an unvoiced question. She can still feel the weight of his gun - the only one not lost in the chaos of the fight - in her hands. She can still see the way he’d motioned for her to do it - to rip the fabric of space apart, to slip through, to teleport herself up high so that she could take the final kill shot on the giant bloated alien monster that had been terrorizing Brooklyn just a matter of hours ago.

And she can still see the way the earth spun in a dizzying, wobbling way, far too blurry and fast for her to get her bearings enough to teleport safely back to the ground. And she can still feel the pure fear of that realization that she was plummeting to her death alongside the alien she’d just successfully killed.

And she can still feel his body slamming into hers mid-air, his arms cinching tight around her, his recently-discovered levitating abilities working overtime to first get him up to her and then to slow their momentum enough that they hit the ground relatively unscathed.

And after the fact - after he saved her life - there was this  _moment_. This breathtaking, heart-stopping, paralyzing moment, when he’d looked at her and she’d looked at him and his hands subconsciously gripping her waist maybe…weren’t so subconscious in the way his thumbs stroked along her ribs and his fingers rippled and tensed. And he’d leaned toward her - that much was undeniable - and she thinks she maybe, probably leaned toward him too.

But the world was still trying to settle after teetering on the brink of collapse and Rosa was howling in victory and Charles’ footsteps were pounding into the ground, growing ever closer, and his grip went from protective and just a little bit  _possessive_ to helpful and supportive in the blink of an eye.

She would have been ready to completely forget it ever happened - the way she always did when they went and had one of  _those moments_  - if not for him pulling her aside and gently adjusting her mask right as the reporters began to swarm. “I accidentally knocked it out of place earlier,” he’d explained softly as he smoothed down the corners against her temples. “No one saw anything - I didn’t see anything - it was just crooked, and - and I know how much you hate that during interviews.”

His fingertips trailed down her face, then, most assuredly not against her mask any longer, but he didn’t linger for long. Just a feather-light touch of her cheeks, a gentle brush of a thumb against her chin, and then he was stepping back and gesturing for her to lead the way toward the mob.

And  _that_ \- that has been plaguing her for  _hours_.

Because she didn’t even think to try and stop him when he reached for her mask. Because she let him adjust it - because she probably would have let him take it off of her completely.

Because no one has ever seen her take her mask off. No one knows her secret identity. Jake doesn’t even know her real name - none of them do.

And yet here she stands, maskless, heart in her throat.

Three paces down from where Jake lives.

She’s been here before - crashed on his couch and, once, in his bed after missions, worked out long and winding mysteries in his living room, tried and failed to learn how to cook in his kitchen under Charles’ watchful gaze. She’s been here before, and yet -

With a quiet, somewhat defeated sigh, she pulls her tote open and reaches for her mask. She lifts it to her face slowly, only pressing down lightly - enough that it will stay in place, but without the usual intensity as during a physical fight.

It’s much easier to take the next step forward after that.

She knocks on his door before she can convince herself not to, and from inside she hears the glass clink of a bottle hitting a hard surface, and the muffled beats of socked feet trotting against carpet. She swallows hard as the light behind his peephole flickers - and shifts her weight nervously when she hears his deadbolt slide and click.

He’s not wearing his mask. The door is only partially open and his face is mostly hidden in the shadows of his ill-lit apartment, but she can see the reflection of light glinting against deep brown set against white. It’s the first thing she notices - followed shortly by the evidence of their fight only just developing on his face, like the bruises on his jaw and the scabbed over cut on the bridge of his nose.

(She hasn’t exactly examined herself in the mirror yet, but she’s fairly certain her own face is in similar shape.)

“Hey,” he says - cautious, almost reserved, but not guarded.

Never guarded.

This is the fourth time she’s seen him without his mask on.

“Hi,” she whispers.

He takes a small, tentative step forward - and the light from the hallway illuminates his entire face for the first time. His eyes flicker as he searches her face, curious in a way that somehow quiets the panic she’d felt before. “Everything okay?”

“Um…no.”

Concern fills his gaze at once, and his body visibly tenses - weight shifting to center on his feet, the muscles of his chest and arms tightening.

“Wait, not - I mean, everything,  _everything_ is okay,” she gestures into his apartment, toward where she knows the windows are situated on the far wall, and he relaxes again - aside from the little pucker in his brow. “I just meant -  _I’m_ not okay.”

His Adam’s apple bobs and he rocks forward a degree. “Did I - did I hurt you? Earlier, when we fell -”

“What? No! No, of course not, you - you  _saved_ me, Jake. You absolutely did not hurt me.”

A tiny, minuscule wave of relief seems to wash through him, but it isn’t enough to ease the creases between his brows. “Good,” he says, nodding as he reaches up to rub his fingertips against the back of his neck. “So, then…what’s up?”

“I just…I’m not…I’m not good at this.”

He pushes his door open a little wider and leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’m patient. Take your time.”

She nods and drops her gaze to her feet. “I owe you,” she murmurs.

“You do not.” he says so sharply she looks up on instinct. “You don’t owe me crap. We both know I would’ve done the same thing for any of the others without hesitation. I didn’t even have to think about it, Dora,” he says the false name he gave her years earlier gently and her stomach bottoms out. “Please don’t think that I’m gonna hold this over you or something, okay? I would  _never_ do that.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t, that’s not - what I meant.” The intensity is still burning in his gaze, but curiosity is beginning to blossom there, too - she inhales deeply and sets her shoulders. “You have been nothing but open and vulnerable with me, especially over the last few weeks. And I’m - I want to do that, too. I want to be more open and more vul-…I want to be more vulnerable. Because - because I trust you. I trust you.” As she repeats the phrase, the corner of his mouth quirks up - but still, the concern persists.

“I believe you,” he says with a shrug.

“That’s - I mean, thank you, but - I still want to do this.”

He searches her face a half-moment longer before his gaze drops down to her shaking hands - now slowly moving up toward her face. “Hey,” he pushes off the doorframe, arms coming uncrossed, socked feet moving over the threshold to inch toward her. The door swings shut behind him - he doesn’t seem to hear it. “It’s okay - you don’t have to do that, Dora, really -”

“I know I don’t,” she says through grit teeth as her fingernails gently pry the stiff leather away from her skin. He pauses, hands raised between them, a half-hearted attempt at moving her own hands away from her face. “But I want to. Really, I do. Unless you don’t want me to.”

He stares a moment longer, face twisted in indecision, before his shoulders drop and his hands fall back to his sides. “I want you to,” he whispers, looking stricken by his own confession.

She shoots him a small smile before working the mask away from her face. The adhesive sticks stubbornly to her skin and she quietly hisses when it pulls at the edge of a barely-developed bruise along her cheekbone. He watches, motionless, aside from his hands rhythmically clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Finally, the mask completely separates from her face, but she holds it over her eyes for another moment. “Dora isn’t my real name,” she murmurs.

His eyes widen. “You don’t have to tell me your real name,” he says quickly. “I mean I - I want to know, but more than anything I want you to feel safe and if me not knowing your real name makes you feel safe, then -”

“Jake,” she interrupts, and he falls silent at once. “I do feel safe with you. That’s why I’m doing this.” He opens and closes his mouth, before slowly shaking his head in clear wonder. “I want you to know my real name before you - see me. The real me. Is that okay?”

He nods.

She inhales again - a short puff of air - and lifts her chin a degree. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek in anticipation, and she can’t help but to smile at the endearing sight. “Okay,” she breathes. Jake shifts his weight from one foot to the other as she slowly lowers the mask, and her eyes fall closed as the leather interrupts her view of his breathless, affectionate face. They remain closed even as her hands drop down to her sides; the silence that follows is practically deafening.

She’s looking down at their feet when her eyes flutter open again and despite the nervousness simmering in her belly, she’s genuinely surprised to see he’s moved toward her since she closed her eyes - their toes are mere inches apart. And she knows when she finally lifts her gaze up to his face, he’ll be close enough that she’ll be able to count each individual freckle where they faintly smatter against his nose and cheekbones.

“My name - my real name - is…Amy.”

He’s looking at her like he’s just discovered the secret to life when she meets his eyes; his grin is blinding, his eyes shining. “Amy,” he repeats, so carefully, so reverently, and it sounds even better in his voice than she daydreamed it would. “God, I’ve been - I’ve been imagining this moment for so long - you have the best name, I love your name. And your eyes.  _God_ , your eyes are so pretty, I don’t - I don’t even know what to do with myself -”

She laughs, and he laughs, too, but his is filtered through a shaky gasp. “Oh, my god, when you smile it’s like - like your eyes smile, too? How do they - I mean, I’ve never -” he cuts himself off with another choked laugh and she’s still smiling, even as his eyes openly rove over her face. “God, you’re  _so_ pretty,” he whispers - to himself, it seems.

She knows her smile has gone shy, that the heat from the tips of her ears is probably pouring through her whole face, but she can’t bring herself to care - his flickering eyes have landed on her lips, his own smile slowly fading, replaced by unmistakable desire.

Nerves pulse through her heart, but she shifts toward him anyways - just like before. He blinks rapidly as she makes her slow approach, lips parting in apparent surprise. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth and she feels herself swallow thickly, eyes glued to the spot even after his tongue vanishes.

He ducks his head, the tip of his nose brushing against hers seconds before his lips press tentatively against hers.

Aside from the rapid beating of her heart in her chest and his own noisy breathing, neither one of them move. It’s a little strange, almost…maybe… _bad_ …but  _then_ -

Then he moves into her all at once, his arms rising up to haul her closer to him, bringing her up to the balls of her feet. She quickly steadies herself with her arms around his shoulders, and not a moment later her back his arching, bending, curving backwards, as Jake’s tongue sweeps into her mouth. He groans against her when she angles her head, fingertips digging a little harder into the meat of his shoulders before one travels up to lightly cup his cheek. Her tote falls from her shoulder and lands in a clatter at their feet but he doesn’t seem to notice - he groans again, louder than before, when both hands frame his face and her tongue brushes against his as she pushes into his mouth.

His hand sweeps up her spine, the arm still around her waist tightening to better stabilize her, and then his fingers are pushing up through her hair to brace the back of her neck. The crown of her head lightly bumps against something hard and solid, followed quickly by her shoulders; it’s as she feels his body stooping, arms burrowing down around her beneath her armpits, knees bending and thighs tensing, that she realizes she’s just hit the back wall of his apartment building hallway and he has every apparent intention of lifting her up and pinning her there, in plain view of his neighbors.

“Mm,” she hums against him as her feet just barely leave the ground, dropping both hands to land against his shoulders. “Mm, Ja- Jake,” she turns her head away, ripping her lips from his, and he rears back, eyes bright with alarm. “No, no, no, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s - it was  _good_ , it was  _really good_  -” She has just enough time to register his relief before he’s moving toward her again, quickly working his way down to her jaw, kissing and lightly nibbling, drawing quiet gasps from her every few seconds. “Jake we - we’re in, we’re in the hall.”

“And?” he grunts, lips now moving over her the side of her neck, experimenting with the sensitive skin around her left ear.

“We need to - to go inside,” her voice is thin and airy, borderline pathetic, and when his teeth scrape against a particularly sensitive spot she has to bite down hard on her knuckles to keep from audibly moaning.

“Been wanting to do this for  _years_ ,” he mumbles between kisses. “If you think I’m gonna stop for one second -”

“Someone might see,” she gasps.

He grins against her, lips curling against her skin, and through their chests pressed together she can feel his heart hammering just as hard as her own. “I didn’t know you were into people watching you do this kinda thing, Amy,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing where it rumbles in her ear.

She swats his shoulder hard enough that the sound reverberates down the hall. “I  _meant_ someone might  _see_ ,” she says, suddenly able to think clearer in the midst of a more familiar dynamic in the midst of this newly intimate setting. She nods her head down; her mask lies to the left of his foot, slipped from her grasp after being swept up in him. The sight of it seems to sober him a little, though not enough for him to move away; he extends his leg and sweeps it back toward them with his foot, his grin bright and eager as he moves it to lie in the narrow space between the heels of her feet and the wall behind her.

“There,” he says, unmistakably triumphant. “Now, where was I?”

She lets out a laugh as he lunges back toward her, hands pressed against his shoulders and head angled up so his lips only make the barest contact with her cheek. “We should go inside,” she insists as he leans away, pouting. “It’ll be more fun…”

His expression seems to light up with interest for a moment, but the pouting returns all too soon, visible even as he drops his forehead down against hers. “But I don’t wanna move.”

“I can’t show you what’s in my tote if we don’t go inside.”

He pulls back, brow furrowed. “Is that like a euphemism or something?”

“Oh, my god,  _no_! I just - I brought, like, food and movies and stuff, in case you wanted to hang out or something -”

“I definitely want to hang out,” he says, “but the food and the movies can wait for later.”

He winks suggestively and she rolls her eyes, but before she can think of a rebuttal he shifts and his thigh presses up between hers and oh, yeah, they need to get inside his apartment  _now_. “Fine,” she rasps - and he grins with unmistakable pride at the audible effect he has on her. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

She hooks her foot through the straps of her tote and shifts back so that the heel of her other foot presses against her mask, and then she’s tipping forward, hands ripping through the spacial fabric around them to teleport them both directly to his bedroom.

“Whoa!” he shouts as he topples backwards, the backs of his knees hitting the mattress and knocking him completely off-balance, sending them both down in a tumbling heap. His arms stay around her this time; she blinks and shakes her head to find his face just inches away, staring up at her in wonder. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he murmurs.

“Actually, it’s sort of like getting over car sickness - after a while, you don’t even really feel it anymore -”

“Not teleporting,” he interrupts. He reaches up slowly and brushes her long hair back behind her ear, before gently ghosting his fingertips along her cheekbone, just under her left eye. “This. You. You’re just - you’re so smart and beautiful and badass -” She scoffs a little at that, and he shifts his head to the side, brows furrowing. “What?”

“I am not a badass, I mean - I’m into crossword puzzles and knitting, you make fun of me for it all the time. If anyone’s a badass, it’s Rosa, with all the knives -”

“You can be into crossword puzzles and knitting and still be a badass.” he interrupts indignantly. “Just ‘cause you don’t dress in all black and threaten everyone around you within an inch of their lives for every little thing doesn’t mean you’re not badass. I mean, who stopped that alien earlier? Who killed it? You, or Rosa?”

“Me,” she admits quietly.

“And who was brave enough to come here and be vulnerable on purpose? You, or Rosa?”

“Me.”

He nods. “Badass.”

“I just -”

He surges upward, interrupting her with a kiss, and her heart feels like it might explode or something for how many beats it seems to be skipping. “You’re a badass, Amy,” he repeats in a whisper when he lets his head slowly drop back to the mattress. “And you’re so, so beautiful.”

It’s one of the last truly coherent things either one of them says that night - aside from each other’s names.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths
> 
> 6\. lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up
> 
> 18\. kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI THIS IS LIKE 6 MONTHS LATE AND FOR THAT I AM SO SORRY BUT HOPEFULLY THIS IS BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

Absurdly -  _stupidly_ \- Jake’s waiting up for her when she gets home at 6:48 AM.

His body hunched over the table in their breakfast nook is the only solid form she’s capable of truly comprehending upon dragging herself through their front door. He’s seated, slouched, looking to be on the verge of bonelessly melting to the kitchen floor. He’s gripping a coffee mug like a lifeline and his face betrays every ounce of exhaustion thrumming in his veins, but he somehow finds the strength to smile as she sheds her purse and kicks off her shoes right there in the entryway.

He’s been home for well over an hour now after finishing the same 3-day case she’s only just finished up paperwork on, and he’s still awake. He’s been home after not sleeping for nearly 50 hours - almost as long as her - and he’s  _still awake_.

 _Stupid_.

“Why’re you still up?” Amy rasps as she shuffles toward him.

“Wanted t’wait for you,” he mumbles - and despite the stupidity of the whole situation, she feels her heart melt, just a little bit. He leans back as she approaches, groaning quietly when his shoulders thump into the back of the chair; only one hand leaves his mug to help steady her as she clambers around his splayed legs, gently tracing up her spine as she sits and leans into him.

She hums as she tucks her head into the crook of his neck, reveling in the warmth against her forehead. He continues rubbing her back in the silence, though each pass of his palm retains only half the energy of the pass before it. “You’ve been waiting this whole time?” she finally whispers.

He grunts quietly, and in her peripheral vision she sees his grip around the handle on his mug tighten. “Tried to lay down earlier,” he says, “but I couldn’t sleep. Not ‘til you got home.”

She makes a contented noise and briefly presses her palm against his chest. “Babe.”

He hums and lets his head loll until his cheek presses against her head; they fall quiet again, the only sounds passing between them their own quiet breathing and the distant sound of early-morning traffic outside their windows.

She pulls her head back slightly and he cranes his neck to meet her gaze; with a slow, lazy smile, she lifts her head just enough to press her lips against his.

It seems to reinvigorate him, if only slightly. He lets out a contented sigh and slides his hand up her back slowly, fingers spread and flexing upon reaching the space between her shoulder blades.

“M’so tired,” she slowly mumbles against his lips.

He hums in agreement. “ _Hate_ marathon cases,” he mumbles back.

“Haven’t slept in two days.”

“Forgot what our apartment looked like.”

“Forgot what  _you_ looked like.”

He pulls back and laughs, loud and appreciative, and she hides her smile against his shoulder. “I was there the whole time,” he reminds her through guffaws.

“I honestly couldn’t tell what was real and what was a hallucination by the time you left.”

Still chuckling, he plants a kiss against her temple. “We need to have a date night soon. It’s been too long. I feel like I only see you right when we wake up in the morning and right before we got to sleep. Actually, scratch that - we need a  _vacation_.”

Eyelids falling closed despite her best efforts, Amy hums into his shoulder, hand falling to land against his forearm and squeeze reassuringly. “Soon,” she mumbles hoarsely. “Jus’ need’ta - request time off. Next month, maybe.”

“Sounds nice. Anniversary trip.”

Despite the exhaustion laying heavy in her bones, Amy’s heart flutters at the reminder that they’re closing in on one year as husband and wife. She smiles into his shoulder again, and he lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. “That’s right,” she breathes, “anniversary trip.”

“We can plan it tomorrow on the way to work,” he says softly. “Let’s just - let’s sleep. F’rever.”

“My legs don’t work anymore.”

“C’mon, mine are falling asleep under your bony butt-”

“Leg machines broke.”

“I’ll push you off and roll you to the bedroom like a Donkey Kong barrel.”

“ _No_ ,” she whines, “just carry me.”

“Normally I would, but I almost passed out earlier just trying to sit up in the bed so we both know that would only end badly for both of us.”

She lets her head fall backwards, pouting, and groans when Jake lightly thumps the end of her nose. “Mean husband.”

“Baby wife.”

He’s smiling that same tired, affectionate smile when her eyelids split open; he leans into her and kisses her willingly when she tugs at his neck. It’s a slow, gentle press, and warmth floods through her body, nervous system lighting up at the wonderful, familiar contact.

“I love you,” she whispers when he breaks away a moment later.

Eyes still closed, she feels him kiss her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “I love you too,” he whispers against her skin, “but if I don’t get in bed in the next ten seconds I  _will_ fall asleep right here and I  _will_ drop you on the kitchen floor.”

(He doesn’t carry her, but he does offer her an arm; they shuffle awkwardly through the living room and only barely make it to the bed before throwing themselves down, fully-clothed, and promptly sleeping for the next twelve hours.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other
> 
> 12\. a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm once again this is 40,000 years late but honestly i’m glad i waited bc i didn’t have a clue what to do with this combination UNTIL i saw a post the other day talking about jake actually arresting the wrong person (accidentally) and it got me thinking,,,,,since he’s now canonically SO much more thorough when working cases, what would the circumstances be for him to a) do that and b) realize that he did that
> 
> so naturally i went full mob boss frames someone they want to get rid of LMAO
> 
> (I DON’T REMEMBER WHO WROTE THE POST OR WHO REBLOGGED IT AND I’M SO SORRY ABOUT THAT but if that concept sounds familiar and you know who did write it/if you are the person who wrote it please tell me bc you deserve 99% of the credit here!!!!!!!!!!!)
> 
> anyways here’s this i’m sorry it’s late and i’m sorry if it’s more angsty than you were originally hoping it would be but boy howdy this was. A Trip

She can hear him in the bedroom when she gets home later that evening.

He’s crying something hoarse and ragged, something that jars her most basic, primal instincts; so focused on the noise is she that she barely registers the heavy  _thunk_ of her purse hitting the ground or the noisy  _whoosh_ of her sergeant’s jacket following suit. Their apartment is dark but there’s a soft glow coming from the bedroom doorway; she hurries toward it, kicking her boots off haphazardly as she goes.

“Jake,” she calls before she’s even made it past the threshold.

He’s perched at the foot of their bed, head hanging, back curved inward in the perfect image of defeat. His face is mostly covered from her view by his hands, and his shoulders shudder and heave as the storm within him rages. He makes no immediate acknowledgement of her presence, aside from a strangled moan slightly higher in pitch than the moans before it.

Amy rushes to him, dropping to her knees and scrambling forward until she fits herself into the scant space between his knees. She has a much better view of his ruddy, tear-stained face from here; without a conscious thought, she reaches up to grip his shoulders, his neck, her touch light and warm and soothing.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” she whispers, but his eyes remain closed. Now that she’s in his space she can see and feel just how violently he’s trembling; insistently, she presses her forehead up against his fingers, until he has no choice but to move them so that his forehead is flush against hers. “Sh, honey, it’s okay,” she murmurs, palms skating up his shoulders into the curve of his neck until her thumbs brush against the hinge of his jaw. “It’s okay.”

His hands fall from his face down to his lap, limp and still trembling, but after a moment he blindly reaches for her. His body shudders against a harsh, uneven inhale just as his fingers curl around the curve of her waist, and she keeps a steady stream of whispered reassurances going until she feels him stop trembling.

Slowly, his bloodshot, swollen eyes flutter open; she kisses the end of his nose to hide her pitying smile.

Pity is the last thing he needs.

“I fucked up,” he mumbles. “Majorly.”

Every instinct in her body wants to argue with him, but she bites her tongue and gently scratches at the back of his neck. “You followed the evidence,” she reminds him softly.

“The  _wrong_ evidence,” his voice is sharp and unfamiliar; she ignores the urge to flinch. “I fell right into the stupid trap like an  _idiot_ and - and -”

“You are  _not_ an idiot,” she admonishes, careful to keep her voice low despite the passion leaking into her words. “Literally any of us would have drawn the same conclusion -”

“But I’m the one who actually did.” he interrupts again, and the muscles in his neck are tense and straining beneath her fingertips. Slowly, she lowers herself until they’re able to meet each other’s gazes, and though his eyes are still brimming with tears, the rage there is unmistakable. “I’m the one who made the call and put in the arrest report - not just any of us.  _Me_.”

“St. Clair and his mob have been terrorizing New York for thirty years - he’s  _beyond_ a career criminal, Jake, he’s an actual bonafide criminal  _mastermind_. I  _guarantee_ that wasn’t the first time he’s framed someone for a crime they didn’t commit. What matters is that you figured it out. You knew something felt wrong and you trusted your instincts despite Holt and Terry and every other person involved in the case telling you that you were just being obsessive, and  _you got him_. You got the right person, who happens to be a  _huge_ criminal the NYPD has been chasing for  _years_ ,  _and_ you saved the innocent man he framed.”

“Saved him from spending the rest of his life in the prison I put him in,” he mutters, though with far less conviction than before. “I just - I’m so angry at myself.”

“I know you are,” Amy whispers around the painful knot of emotion in her throat. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. But please, please try to remember the way you felt about the officers who arrested you that day at the bank. You didn’t blame them, did you?”

He studies her face for a moment before answering. “No.”

“And us, the squad - did you blame us for not being there?”

“No.”

“Who did you blame?”

His gaze drops to his knees. “Hawkins,” he says after a moment.

“ _Exactly_. You blamed the person who framed you, because she’s the one who tried to ruin your life to begin with.  _No one_  blames you for this, Jake.  _Especially_ since you’re the one who figured out it was a frame job two days after the case officially ended.”

Tears are springing up in his eyes again - though she suspects they’re far less angry than before.

“You are a excellent detective and an amazing person, babe,” she murmurs, framing his face between both of her hands before pressing her forehead against his again. “Richard Smith is lucky to have had you involved in this case - no one else would have thought to question the legitimacy of the paperwork on the bank accounts the vic’s money was drained to, no one else would have dug as intensely as you dug. You’re a good man,” she says slowly, “and I am so, so glad that you’re the one I get to spend the rest of my life with. I love you so much, Jake, more than anything in the world.”

His breathing has gone more shallow, tears beginning to drip down his face. “Kiss me,” he says hoarsely.

She hesitates for all of one moment before angling her head down and pressing a soft, chaste kiss against his lips. His hands are far more abrasive than before when he reaches round to pull her closer; she pulls away abruptly, gasping into his mouth, and then he’s yanking her closer, all but devouring her.

He kisses her hungrily, hands rough and restless where they roam the expanse of her back and tangle in her hair. He hums something high-pitched, almost absently, edging closer to the end of the bed and trapping her in place with his knees. She slings an arm around his neck for balance and cups the side of his face with her free hand, letting him take what he needs but still grounding him to reality with her thumb softly caressing his cheekbone.

It takes a long moment, but eventually he seems to come back to himself; his kisses soften and slow, like all the tension of the day behind him has finally leaked out of him. She keeps her hand on his face even after their lips part, thumb stroking steadily as he shudders and leans forward, past her face, head nestling comfortably into the crook of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me either.”

“Sometimes I just - I still can’t believe that this is real, y’know? Like - like you’ll wake up one day and realize you’ve made a horrible mistake with me -”

“Being with you is the single best decision I’ve ever made in my life,” she interrupts. “From the moment we first kissed in the evidence lockup, all you’ve done is prove to me how good and right and  _perfect_ you are for me. Time and time again, you’ve shown me how much you love me, how much you care about me, all the things you’d rather not do, but do anyways for me. You’ve brought so much joy and happiness and laughter into my life, you’ve made everything brighter and  _better_. For all the anxiety and doubt and confusion I deal with on a daily basis, I need you to really hear me when I say that this - you and me? It’s the only thing I’ve never once doubted. You’re my orangina, Jake. You always have been, and you always will be, no matter what life throws at us.”

She feels the muscles in his jaw clench against her shoulder and he nestles closer, his arms around her waist cinching tighter. “I love you so much,” he whispers, sounding dangerously close to tears once again.

“I love you, too,” she whispers, finally moving her hand on his face up to gently card her fingers through his hair. “And I know you haven’t eaten in two days, so I called Sal’s on my way home from work. The delivery guy should be here in less than ten minutes.”

He releases a strangled groan, squeezing her so hard she can’t draw a breath for a moment. “ _You’re the best person I know_ ,” he breathes.

She smiles and turns her head to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “And  _you’re_ the best person  _I_  know,” she murmurs into his hair.

And she means with with every fiber of her being - just as she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he does, too.


End file.
